Romancing the Bachelor (A Hamilton Family 2)

“Hey,” he echoed.

“Sorry about that,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear nervously. “I know it’s annoying. I tried to end it as soon as—”

He reached out and pressed a finger to her mouth. “The only annoying thing about tonight is that I want to kiss you, and can’t. Never apologize for being good at something and having people notice. Your painting is incredible, and I think you’re pretty incredible, too. Don’t ever doubt that, or let a man make you doubt that, ever again.”

She sucked in a deep breath. “How’d you know? I didn’t tell you he—”

“You didn’t have to.” He cradled her face in his hands. “He was clearly a dick who couldn’t handle his girl being better at something than he was. Never let another guy like that into your life. You deserve so much better, Shel.”

She bit her lip. “Take me home?”

Not speaking, he nodded and gathered their paintings carefully, making sure to hold them so they didn’t touch. To his surprise, she caught his hand, holding on to it tightly.

That simple touch?

It fucking did things to him.

“Eric?”

“Yeah?” he asked, his throat oddly tight.

“Thank you,” she whispered, laying her head on his arm.

And right then, in that moment, he knew.

No matter what happened in this war he was fighting…

He was going to lose.

Chapter Eight

Eric walked beside her, strangely silent for a man who thrived on words. He’d been tense ever since they left the art studio, and even though he said it wasn’t because of the attention she’d gotten for her work, his silence was stirring up bad memories she’d rather leave unearthed. It had been a while since she thought of her disastrous relationship on specific terms. It had been over for longer than it had lasted, so she didn’t lie in bed at night thinking about it anymore. She had better things to do than reminisce about a man who had treated her like shit, thank you very much.

But now, with Eric acting like he was, after she got attention for performing better than the rest of the class—something her ex had hated—she couldn’t help but remember the time he’d been pissed because she’d done better than him at pool. He’d walked out of the pool hall and left. Just left her there. She’d had to beg for a ride from some girl she hadn’t even known, and when she got home, he’d been asleep in bed. He hadn’t even waited up for her.

Eric said he didn’t care about her painting…

Yet, here he was. Acting tense.

Why?

Since she wasn’t the type to wonder when she could just frigging ask, she turned to him, opened her mouth, and blurted, “What’s wrong?”

He shot her a look out of the corner of his eye. “Nothing. Why?”

“You’re acting weird, ever since…”

He stopped at her door, the paintings in his hand. “Ever since what?”

“Ever since the painting thing.” She pulled her keys out of her purse and unlocked the door. Stepping inside, she motioned him in. He hesitated, both paintings in his hands, and glanced inside. “If it bothers you that I can paint, just say so. I thought you didn’t play games?”

He flexed his jaw and stepped inside. “I assure you, any way I’m acting or not acting has nothing to do with your painting. I told you. I don’t give a damn whether you paint like Van Gogh or a five-year-old. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“That’s what he always said, too, before he walked away from me.” Exasperation took over as she kicked the door shut and turned to lock it. “I—” She broke off on with gasp, because he was right there. She hadn’t even heard him come up behind her.

“I am not, and never will be, your asshole ex,” he growled, backing her up against the door. His hard body on hers was almost too much to handle, and he leaned down, his mouth a breath from hers. “I’m not pissed that you’re good at something, Shel.”

She placed her hands on his hard—so frigging hard—chest, breathing unevenly. It wasn’t that she was trying to push him away, because she didn’t even try, but that she needed to feel like she could, if she wanted to. “Then tell me why you’re so agitated.”